


Oh, FrUK

by Rinzlerkitty94



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mpreg, Multiple Pairings, Romance, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-14 03:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2176437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinzlerkitty94/pseuds/Rinzlerkitty94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The never-ending story of Francis Bonnefoy and Arthur Kirkland, and their ever-growing family. Co-written with TsukiNaito from DeviantArt. Full of drama, romance, our weird sense of humor, and history. The arcs stretch from normal Hetalia related storyline to vampires, zombies, aliens, and much more.  Includes the Harry Potter fandom and many Star Wars references.  Basically, if you're a yaoi-loving nerd, this is the story for you; minus the sex.  Just trust me, you'll want to read it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My co-author, TsukiNaito, and I do not own any of the recognizable Hetalia or Harry Potter characters. We also are not trying to offend anyone with this story, so I really hope we don't. Also, as a warning, we were very immature when we first started rping, so there are several references to rape, mostly made in a humorous way. This will only happen within the first chapter, and we have grown as authors, and decent people sense. We do not condone rape, and if we offend anyone, we are very, very sorry. I can promise that in the future, any time we bring up the event referenced to, it will be in a serious manner. It is very connected to the plot of the story, but never actually written out in detail.

He sat with his head hung close to the bar, a glass of golden whiskey clutched in his right hand as though he feared it would run away. World Conferences always called for a pint afterward… or two, or three. The polished wooden grain of the bar surface swirled slightly in front of him.   
“I should stop drinking…” he murmured to himself.  
“No, the more you drink, the easier you are,” the irritatingly nasal voice came from the stool to his right.  
He jerked, and glared at the intruder of his private drunkness, then returned to examining the bar. “Get away from me, Frog!” England hiccupped violently on the last word.  
“Nope! And now you don’t have anyone to protect you, Arty,” France answered with a smile.  
“Shut up.”  
“I shall not. You love my voice,” he said it with a clear smoothness that infuriated him even more.  
England snickered dryly, “Like fingernails love a chalkboard.”  
“Oh! You like fingernails, do you? That’s rather kinky!”   
“What the f**k, Frog?”  
“Hahaha, oh yes Arthur,” France leaned an elbow on the bar.  
“Foul smelling manwhore,” he said simply and ordered a bottle of rum.  
“It’ll be okay, England. I promise. I won’t hurt you…. Much.”  
England choked slightly on the swig he had just taken and quickly got up, rum bottle in tote.  
“I’ll catch you one way or another, dear Arthur.”  
“Back off, cherie Francis,” he spat with threatening distaste.  
“Oh you are speaking my language, dearest. You love me, no?” France smiled softly.  
“No.”  
“Deny it all you want, love. I know your true feelings.”  
England pulled out his wand threateningly, “I don’t like the dead.”  
“Uh huh. Sure.” France seemed unphased.  
“I’m not like you!”  
“No. But you’re in love with me,” the Frenchman said plainly, almost teasingly.  
“F**k you, Frog! No I’m not!” he couldn’t keep the defensive tone out of his voice.  
A wide smile cracked across France’s face.  
“The more you deny it, the more obvious it is that you love me!” he bellowed.  
“Shut your mouth, Frog! Or I will!” England took a gulp of rum to hide the bead of sweat that ran down his face.  
“Oh! And what with?” he sneered.  
The comment slowly processed through his drunken mind, and then, England stayed silent for a moment. A warm blush appeared on his face.  
France smiled again and chuckled, but this time England couldn’t tell if it was mocking or not. “Yes. I knew it. You just can’t resist me.” France said.  
England jerked nervously, and, with another swig of rum, replied darkly, “Oh yeah, I can’t resist you…with a bat!!!”  
“Kinky.”  
He growled at how that had gotten turned around. “No! Dammit France!” He suddenly pulled out a bat and wacked France on head, who fell back on the floor with a thud, yet didn’t seem in the least discouraged.  
“Still kinky! If I can survive a night with Russia, you can do nothing to hurt me,” France said.  
England jerked in surprise, then said with a mix of anger and disgust, “Russia! How could you?! …or he?” Wack!  
“He doesn’t give you a choice,” he rubbed his head, then looked up at him with mock curiosity. “And why do you suddenly care so much, hmmm?”  
Britain didn’t answer, but merely took a swig of rum, glaring at him with his deep jade eyes. He swung the bat once more. To his surprise, he didn’t feel it hit the hard surface of his long time enemy’s head, but slowly found that France had caught it in his hand and was now glaring at him with those familiar piercing blue eyes.  
“Just tell me the truth, Arthur Kirkland!” he yelled, yanking the bat to pull him closer.  
A childish anger came over England. “No! Fop!”  
“Fine,” he pushed him back. “Your dear brother has always been nicer.”  
Wack! Again.   
“How could anyone love you?!” England cried. “You rape everything you see!”   
Swig.  
France’s thin eyebrows met in a v. “Why don’t you ask Scotland? Find out how much your own family hates you before you attack me!”  
“It’s not my fault! You’re not the youngest brother, you don’t know!”  
Swig.  
“Scotland loves me,” France crossed his arms.  
“Scotland can suck it! He probably already has!” he retorted, a slight sniffle escaping with the last few words.  
“Hahaha of course. Jealous that your big brother loves me more than he loves you,” France answered with a manipulative twist.   
“I don’t care who he loves and who loves you! Who do you love, eh?” he threw out one arm. “You bleeding rapist!”  
“Who do you love? That affects my answer more than anything, mon cherie.”  
“Heh, well I think we’ve come to a stalemate, old friend,” England stated humorlessly.   
“We have,” France agreed calmly. “What’s your real answer? Because no matter what, you are mine.”  
He looked away and said softly: “If you hadn’t whored around all over the world maybe I’d…”  
“Maybe you’d what? You’d be surprised by the truth.”  
England shook his head.  
“Oh, who am I kiddin’. Nobody loves the old maid of the world,” he looked up at France with sad distaste, “you just wanna rape somethin’. That’s how you work, isn’t it?”   
“Not true.”  
“Whatta ya mean not true?” he shoot with a drunken slur. How could France toy with him so much?! “All my brothers hate me, you try to invade me!”  
“Scotland hates you! America hates you (sorta)! I love you!”  
It was like an electric current had rushed through him. France himself seemed shocked at how it had come out after being held in for so long. Silence fell heavy on them as they regarded each other.   
“Francis?” England weakly mustered the low sound.  
“Yes, Arthur?” his voice was soft.  
Arthur’s mind was still slow to process.  
“You rape everybody, though,” he said slowly.  
“Not really. Only you.”  
His mind snapped back to normal speed, and he waved his bat menacingly. “Don’t lie to me, Frog.”  
“I’m not Arthur, I swear. Russia’s the rapist!” France answered defensively as he backed away a few steps.   
“Prove it.”  
“How?”  
“ … You know how.”  
“Um… Arthur, does this mean you really do love me?”  
“Uh, I, uh,” he stammered and blushed. The question felt simply impossible to answer and he coughed on his reply. “Yebcxks.”  
“What was that love?” Francis smiled and moved closer to hear.  
The attempt had thrown England into a bit of a coughing fit.  
“Don’t choke!” France said worriedly and slapped him on the back.  
“Argh! You’re not helping the moment, Frog!”  
A few more coughs.  
“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish smile and lightly put his arm down on the bar.  
England cleared his throat once, then again. Then cleared his throat for a long moment, then cleared his throat, before he said: “Oui, mon cherie, oui.”  
“Why is it that you keep speaking my language, hmm? Not that I don’t enjoy it, but it makes me very curious.”  
“I just confessed! And that’s all you have to say?!”  
“No. It’ not at all everything I have to tell you. I still have to tell you how desperately in love with you I am. How you make my life livable,” Francis looked up slowly, only to find him passed out on the bar. “Oh Arthur. Didn’t you know how bad for you drinking this much is? You had better be glad that I care about you, and that I’m not Russia.‘Twas not the most fun thing in the world,” he shuddered as he hauled England into bathroom. “If you do end up throwing up, it won’t be on me.”

It was with great effort that England opened his eyes. Bright sunlight was pouring into the room, burning his eyes and adding to the pain that was already being caused by his headache. As his vision improved, he slowly realized that the ceiling above him was not the one he expected. England looked around, his neck aching, and realized… he was in France’s house. Oh please no, he pleaded to himself. However, he slowly began to comprehend he was still fully clothed.  
“What?” he wondered aloud.  
He felt a hand gently pat his head. “You were beating me with a bat.”  
Arthur looked up and saw his familiar blue eyes looking down at him, yellow hair shining gold in a midday sun. Strangely, he did not seem to feel the usual hatred that came with the sight of France’s face. Slowly, he sat up.  
“I would imagine. What the hell happened? Argh, my head,” he rubbed his head as the pain intensified.  
“You got drunk, tried to beat me to death,” Francis answered, then added as if he had almost forgotten something, “oh, and you confessed that you love me.”  
England’s eyes snapped up. “What the f**k, Frog?” he shook his head and opened the window by the bed. “Eh, I’ll just jump out the window now.”  
Francis frantically grabbed at his arm as he swung his leg over the sill. “Oh no you don’t. Not after I finally got you to admit that. Do you know how long I’ve been trying to make you realize that I love you too, Arthur?”  
“Why are you always grabbing onto me you perv?” he only seemed to have heard half of what was said.  
“I’m grabbing your arm so you don’t DIE!”  
England glared impatiently. “France, this is a first story window!”  
“Oh. Ummm,” Francis bit his lip for a moment, then quickly thrust a basket of golden, perfectly baked bread under England’s nose. “Scone?”   
“These aren’t scones,” he said jerking his head away from the basket and sniffing its contents. “They smell… good.” Still confused by what was going on, he glanced up suspiciously and demanded, “What did you put in these?”  
“Butter!” France answered, taken aback. “I can cook remember?!  
“…What are you saying?”  
“Nothing. Your cooking is great,” he said quickly, crossing his fingers behind his back.  
“I’m out.” England jumped off the bed and walked to the door.  
“What?” an edge of panic was in his voice. “No! Don’t leave!”  
England shut the door and muttered to himself: “What it that creep up to?” as he pulled on his suit jacket and approached the elegant front doors of France’s home.   
Francis opened the guest room door and dashed after him. “Arthur, you can’t leave!”  
“We’ve been through this before, France. I’m leaving before I end up with another ‘little brother,’” he said, rolling his eyes and turning around, one hand on his hip.  
“You certainly seemed willing to listen to me last night!” France yelled as he caught up. “The drunken mind speaks the sober heart, Arthur.”  
“What? Since when are you smart enough to speak in riddles?”  
“I’m very intelligent, mind you! I can remember that we have TWO “little brothers” as you call them.”  
“Two?”  
“CANADA!”  
“Huh? Hey. What about Sealand? Where did he come from?”  
“That would be your affair with Alfred.”  
Arthur jerked back with a disgusted look. “Are you on drugs? Why would I do that? I—” he was confused about how he might finish.  
“You what? And no, I am not on drugs!”  
“Hmm, maybe I am,” he said slowly and opened the door.  
“Well, obviously. You practically worship the Beatles, after all,” France growled as he quickly circled Iggy and slammed the door shut.   
“The Beatles were a great band!” England retorted.” They sure beat your music! Daft Punk just says the same thing over and over again for 5 minutes! If they’re gonna do drugs, they should learn how to do them right! Now move!”  
“DO NOT INSULT DAFT PUNK! And they don’t do drugs! AND I will not move! Not now, not ever. Not when I have you so close, when I love you so much.”  
“Huh? Cut the dramatics, will ya? And don’t touch my Beatles, either. You know you love them. My place, Alfred’s, all the way to Japan they’re popular, so don’t get all worked up punk!”  
Francis shook his head with frustration; England seemed to be oblivious to half of what he was saying. “No honestly, I don’t. The only thing I love about your damn country is you.”  
“I seem to remember a certain someone cutting his hair like Ringo’s back in the 60s… the 1960s.”  
“Arthur!”  
England broke in to laughter.  
“What?”  
“I.. wish… I still… had a picture of that!”  
Francis’s face softened, his eyebrows upturned (huh, that’s a word), and he said in a sad voice, “Why do you hate me?  
“Huh?” England snorted as he attempted to regain himself. “What’s that? Hate you?”  
“Yes. Hate me. Why?”  
“Hmm?” he straightened himself up and regarded him curiously. “You’re acting odd, France. Come on, I gotta get home.”  
“Fine. Go.” France said it with a bitter, definitive voice and walked passed England without looking at him.  
Suddenly, Arthur remembered something. The polished wooden bar swirled in front of him and… last night.  
“Wait, France,” it was weak, and Francis continued to climb the grand staircase. “Wait! France!” he dashed after him and grabbed his arm, and France slowly turned his head.  
“England?” he said.  
Arthur hesitated for a moment, stopped by a fear that hadn’t hit him the moment before. But he threw it aside and (I don’t know how to describe “attack kiss” at this moment.).  
Francis stood in shock for a moment after their lips met, his eyes wide, but slowly wrapped his arms around Arthur and closed his eyes as he began to kiss back. However, this long awaited moment only lasted a brief minute. America waltzed through the large wooden doors without warning.  
“Hey France, I wanted to ta—,” he stopped as he processed the scene he had walked in on, his bright blue eyes confused. “Wha?”  
Quickly, Francis pulled away and chucked a bat in America’s direction. “Dammit, Alfred! You ruin everything!”  
“Alright, alright!” Alfred shouted as he backed out the door, throwing his arms above his head to protect himself. “’Bout damn time.”  
He glared as the door shut, then turned back to England and kissed him again.  
“And you thought I hated you?” England said as he pulled away and smiled.  
“Arthur?”  
“What do you want, Frog?”  
“You. Arthur. Only you.”  
England, smiled and looked down. “I, uh, I don’t know what to say.”  
Francis said nothing. He simply pulled him close and attempted to smooth his unruly hair.  
“Like that’s gonna do much,” he laughed and wacked his hand away.  
“It never hurts to try, love,” France replied with a pout.  
“… Now what?”  
“Well….” France’s mouth curled into a familiar creeper smile. “What do you think happens next, Arthur Darling?”  
“Uh,” England jerked and extended his hand out between them. “I don’t think I’m ready to take it to this level, France!”  
Francis blinked, looked around, and then blushed slightly. “I was just talking about playing Monopoly! What level are you talking about?”  
“Uh… Nothing Francis, nothing.” He grabbed France’s eyelid and examined his eye closely, and mutter to himself. “Is there something wrong with him?”  
“I’m fine, Arthur,” he said, swatting his hand away. Yet the Brit still regarded him strangely. “I’m fine. I just want you to know that I really do care about you.” England didn’t answer. “What?”  
“You’re not acting like yourself,” he finally said.  
“Is something wrong?”  
“Didn’t I just say it? You’re not acting like Francis.”  
“I am Francis. A new Francis. I’m trying to prove to you that I love you, that I don’t just want to use you. Arthur, I really do care.”  
“Well stop it.”  
The words pierced and confused him. “Why? I thought this is what you wanted.”  
“I love Francis,” England put simply, crossing his arms. “So I want Francis.”  
France raised an eyebrow. “You want me to be a pervy creep again?”  
“Uhh… Yes. Just no raping, Frog.”  
“As you wish, Arthur.”


	2. Chapter 2

The keys jingled on their ring as England stepped out of the car, twisting them around his pointer finger. On that ring has lived his entrance into his house, his car, his office, but now, there was a new member on the circle. The key to France’s home. He twirled it once again happily. France had given it to him at the end of their date last night. It was astonishing how well their relationship was going. Not two weeks ago, the sight of that smelly frog had made him want to punch his lights out. Now, the sight of him caused another feeling in him entirely. Ok, maybe that feeling had come with the punching thing, but he wasn’t into that.  
England stopped and gazed up at the tall, elegant French mansion for a moment. Sure, it was a bit early considering how late their date had went the night before, but surely France would be up by now. Anyway, he simply couldn’t wait to be able to see Francis again and just after waltzing into the house of his own accord. And at that thought, England slipped the magnificent golden key into its hole, savoring the click and chunk it made as it perfectly fitted into its intended place, and turned it. The grand wooden door swung open and England glance around. The entrance and living room appeared to be empty. There were no sounds from the kitchen or dining area just off the entrance. Was that snail-eating slug really still asleep? He wondered if it would be inappropriate to go and wake him up… on second thought, France would probably be overjoyed at the sight of England in his bedroom. No real reason not to, I suppose, he thought, then sighed and climbed the stairs.  
The hallway was lined with opened doors, from which rays of late morning sunlight streamed and lit the house with a comfortable golden glow. England wandered until he found a closed one with a larger, more decorated surface, and assumed it was the master bedroom. Quietly he opened the door and knocked on its frame. He big green eyes surveyed the room inside. It was extravagantly yet tastefully decorated, fitting of his partner, and more glittering rays flowed in from the transparent blue curtains on the far end of the room. A large wooden canopy bed sat against the center of the left wall, and in it, was the lump of blankets that was Francis Bonnefoy. Cautiously, he walked over and poked his shoulder.  
“Francis?” he said softly, realizing that he could potentially scare the lights outta France in this situation… and was just fine with that. A little less gently: “Francis. Are you really still in bed, frog?”  
France opened his eyes and looked up, surprised. “Arthur? What are you doing here?”  
“I thought you would be awake by now,” he answered, conveniently forgetting the doubts he had had early. “What’re you still doing in bed?”  
“I don’t know, I’m tired,” France answered, laying his head back on the pillow.  
A teasing smile played across England’s face. “Come on, frog. Get up.”  
France didn’t move.  
He took a different approach to bug the Frenchman out of bed. “Get up, frog,” he taunted as he began poking his shoulder.  
Still, France didn’t react. His shoulders were even rising and falling as they would in sleep.  
Okay, now England was frustrated. “Frog! Wake up!”  
“Wake me up,” France muttered in a sensual voice.  
At that, England whacked him across the head. “Wake up, frog!”  
France grimaced and lazily gave him a kick in the stomach. “Unless you plan on doing something, bugger off Farty.”  
Okay so, maybe their relationship hadn’t gotten that far.  
“Yeah, I plan on doing this!” England yelled as he swung his trusty, spontaneously appearing bat.  
Yet, once again, the bat was caught by France. “Not what I meant, love,” he said as he sat up, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him into a tender hug.  
“Ah, don’t get mushy on me, Francis,” the Brit said awkwardly and pulled away.  
“Why not?” France asked. “All I wanted was for you to stop being so abusive. Put the bat down!”  
An evil sneer played across England’s face.  
“No.”  
“Please…?” his victim replied, putting on the biggest puppy dog eyes.  
“No. Puppy dog eyes don’t work on your face, frog.”  
“…… Would frog eyes work?”  
“… I doubt it, France.”  
“…. Would a kiss work, then?”  
Arthur felt a hot blush crawl across his cheeks. “Probably not.”  
“Well, I’d be willing to give it a try,” France stated with a smile and, with the intensifying of England’s blush, he laid a soft kiss on his lips.  
“Hmmm… Nope, didn’t work,” Arthur said in a playful tone before jabbing his boyfriend in the stomach and sending him to his knees, clutching his stomach.  
“Why, Arthur?” he stopped for a gasp of air. “What did I do to deserve this?”  
“Hmmm.” England pondered over that for a moment, flipping his bat in the air. Truthfully, France had done so many things to him over the years, that he relished in the idea of a little revenge on the frog each and every day. But he wasn’t going to explain that to Francis. They would be there all day and, being British, Arthur didn’t like to show his feelings much. So he simply answered: “I dunno.”  
“But why hurt me?”  
“Because, it’s fun.”  
“But I thought you loved me.”  
“So? It’s still fun.”  
“Well if that’s the theory.”  
Suddenly, France brandished his own bat and swung in return.  
“Hey!” England yelled at this sudden unfair, Twilight Zone-ish turn of events. Quickly, he blocked France’s bat with his own.  
A batsaber fight? This was hardly proper… or sensible for that matter. Why the hell would they do this?  
That’s what the gentleman inside his head thought. Rational and logical. But with the crash of china and the splash of tea, his pirate side pushed the gentleman aside and sneered. Hell yeah.  
“On guard!” he yelled with a broad, pirate grin.  
“Um….”  
A confused France took a swing at his face and he expertly blocked it and sent a returning attack. They quickly found themselves dancing in this spontaneous “batsaber” fight, reminiscent of their long forgotten rapier battles at sea. They lunged and parried, migrating out of the master bedroom and into the hallway where, miraculously, France began to gain an advance on his opponent. Swiftly, the Frenchman jabbed forward, forcing Arthur to leap back.  
It all happen so fast, yet so slowly. Arthur felt the edge of the top stair dig into the center of his foot, his heel dangling in midair and quickly descending down the flight. In a panic, he reached out and grabbed Francis’s shirt for support, but he had caught his companion unprepared and still in the midst of a forward lunge. In an instant the two were both thrusting downward and tumbling over each and every step.  
Finally, England felt himself slam onto the flat, hardwood landing below. He had a nice second of aching relief before another weight plopped on top of him.  
“Why do awkward things like this keep happening?” he heard France exclaim from on top of him. ON TOP OF HIM.  
“I don’t know! It’s your fault, Frog!” he shrieked.  
“My fault?”  
“You jabbed!”  
“But you hit me first, love,” Francis stated this in a soft voice that instantly smoothed out the argument.  
“You wanted to be woken up.”  
“Yes, but more gently.”  
Even softer.  
“I don’t know the meaning of the word.”  
“You don’t?” he slowly brushed the hair out of England’s eyes. I’ll have to teach you, and give you a haircut. You really do need one.”  
“I look worst with it shorter, thanks. And could you not do that while we’re in this position?”  
“No. I think I will. Why?”  
England laughed. “Get off me, Frog.”  
France pouted at the demand. “I don’t want to.”  
The smile faded as Arthur realized he wasn’t joking. His massive eyebrows slid down  
into a v and he said in a sterner voice: “Francis…”  
“Alright. Alright.” Francis replied with a sigh and rolled over.  
Even after the number of dates they had been on, Arthur had yet to sleep with Francis in the timeframe of their serious relationship. Something he knew his companion was not used to, nor was he happy with it. Nevertheless, Arthur had his own jumble of reason for this, and he simply wasn’t ready to put them aside yet.  
They were now both sprawled out onto the floor, next to each other. England glanced over at France’s disappointed face and chuckled. “You perv.”  
“That’s why you love me.”  
“Heh, heh. Well…” he wasn’t quite sure whether or not he agreed with that. Did he?  
“Well?” the Frenchman sat up on his elbow and bent over to kiss him.  
“Heh, you’re on me again.”  
“Are you complaining?”  
“Yes.” England took hold of France’s shoulders and rolled so that he pinned him to the floor. “There, stay.”  
“Perhaps, love,” he said casually, then let a sensual smirk sneak onto his face. “Persuade me.”  
And it was with that that Arthur lost all logical thought. Being there, so close to Francis with that devilish smirk, which slowly infected his own face as well.  
“You’ll wonder why they call me uke.”  
“Oh really now, love?” France raised a happy eyebrow.  
Really now.  
“….. You scare me sometimes.”  
“ I could say the same about you…”  
Just as Arthur had begun to lean down for a kiss, the dirty blonde head of America burst through the still unlocked front door.  
“Hey is England here?” the younger country asked, not particularly paying attention to his surroundings. “I was—w… wa… uh…um.” An expression of fear broke into his face when his eyes fell to their position on the floor in front of him.  
“ Dammit Alfred!” In a fit of rage for his interrupted moment, Francis snatched up his bat and chucked it at America, who frantically raised his arms to protect himself.  
Arthur, on the other hand, regaining his sense, slowly put his hand on his head and stood up. “Thank you, Al.”  
“No!” France shot up from the floor. “Don’t thank him! He ruined everything again!”  
“Exactly.”  
This made America shudder with the image of what he exactly had interrupted.  
“Arthur?” France blinked.  
Subtly, he pointed to the messy hair and French royal browed America and whispered: “Case end point.” Then returned to a voice they could all here, “Um, I think I’ll go now.”  
“As you wish,” the Frenchman answered and pulled England close and kissed him.  
“Not in front of Al!” he shouted, jerking away with a scarlet face.  
“Yeah! Not in front of me!” America agreed.  
“Fine,” France said, taking one last glare at the interrupter of his pursuits. His favorite pursuits. “I’ll see you again soon enough, love.”  
“Eh, right. Um.” Arthur glanced over at America, secretly willing the boy to hurry up and leave to the awkward demands of social society would not force him to walk out with him.  
Seeing this, France chucked a questionable, yet clearly heavy object at Alfred’s head.  
“Go on!”  
“Ahh! Fine! Fine!” America ducked his head and walked out.  
“Hey! That was heavy! Do you really wanna kill more of his brain cells?” England shouted, giving France a smack on the shoulder.  
“Of course. Don’t you?”  
“No!”  
“Aw.”  
“Hmph.”  
“I was only kidding.”  
“Anyway, France, I better leave.” He was still giving him a dirty look.  
“As you wish. On more kiss, love?”  
England crossed arms and looked away.  
“Maybe, if you don’t cause any damage to Alfred.”  
“Fine.”  
“Ok,” he agreed, laughing at his pouting tone. But when the frog simply stood there and smirked, instead of the expect enthusiastic attack by tongue, Arthur was taken aback. “Well? Any day now, frog!”  
France shook his golden head.  
“Nah uh. You have to make an effort too, love.”  
“Hey, you made the promise to me.”  
“So?”  
“Ok, see ya,” England said with a wave of his hand and turned to the door to walk out.  
The Frenchman stood still.  
Arthur opened the door.  
“Wait!” France’s arm grabbed him from behind and nonchalantly he turned.  
“Hmm?”  
Quickly, Francis hugged him close and gave him sweet, short kiss. “I love, Arthur.”  
“Why are you talking weird?”  
“I am not!”  
“Yes, you are,” Arthur reinstated with a smile, then twirled his pinky finger as if to say he had France wrapped around his little finger and calmly crossed the threshold to the outside.  
Francis’s jaw dropped.  
“Dammit, Arthur!” he shrieked. Then, in a lower voice, added: “Stupid uke….”  
“As if.” England added with an evil, satisfied sneer.  
But the sneer snapped away when he was grabbed by the arm and pinned to the front door. “Hey!” he yelled.  
“Enjoy it,” France slapped down in a definitive voice. “I won’t always be this nice, love.”  
His point made, Francis’s demeanor changed and his blue gaze slid to the top of his partner’s head. He patted the wild spikes with one hand. “Arthur, this is ridiculous. Can I please give you a haircut?”  
“No. And we’ll see about that, mon cherie.”  
With that, England broke free from the hair dresser’s hold and headed to his car.  
“As you wish, my love,” France sighed, watching him go.  
“Uh huh.”  
“Shut it, Kirkland, and get your bloody ass into your damn car! Is that better?”  
“Bloody ass?” he laughed and climbed into his vehicle.  
“Whatever.”


	3. Chapter 3

“And my fortune cookie says, ‘Flattery will go far tonight…’” Francis laughed softly, hoping that this was the truth. He had already had a … difficult week. His boyfriend, the seemingly ever hostile Arthur Kirkland, had proven to be quite a handful, and not at all easy to seduce. Already Francis had been subjected to several beatings with those spontaneously appearing bats, which was bad enough considering the damage it had done to his gorgeous face, but the previous night had been the worst torture of all. Don’t get him wrong, Francis truly did love his British boyfriend, but there were times when he wished Arthur was… well, less Arthur-ish, and the night before had definitely been one of those times. It had begun with another failed attempt at seducing Arthur, and ended with the Brit turning the situation around on him; turning him on, then just returning to his house and leaving France alone with a rather uncomfortable problem to deal with.   
Today, however, had been a much better day. He and Arthur had spent the day together, just enjoying the other’s company. It had been a warm day, being in the middle of September, and the weather was perfect for being outside; naturally they had taken advantage of it. The day had been dedicated mostly to walking around a nearly deserted park, and though Francis had complained at first, stopping for lunch at a Chinese take-out restaurant, this leading up to the fortune he hoped would be coming true. Arthur, who had been picking at some fried rice, now looked up at him with one large eyebrow raised. “…. Your cookie advises you to suck up?”   
“No… Well, maybe.” At those words, Arthur’s eyes grew comically wide, already knowing exactly where France hoped any attempt at flattery would get him, and scooted away from his boyfriend. The park bench they were sitting on was only so long, and an idea started forming in France’s mind, so he scooted closer to England. The Brit scooted further away, not realizing he was getting closer and closer to the edge of the bench, and France had to fight to keep a smirk off his face as he once again closed the distance between them. Finally, Arthur scooted to the very end of the bench, crossing his legs as if trying to look as proper as possible. France finally let the smirk show on his face and nudged Arthur off the edge, whistling innocently.   
“Ah! What the hell was that for?!” England shouted, glaring up at the Frenchman as he sat where he had fallen, sprawled on the concrete. Said Frenchman only laughed at the not very threatening expression on his face.  
“Because you’re adorable right now. And I thought it would be funny.” And it was to him, not so much though to England, who frowned up at him. The expression didn’t at all have the effect Arthur wished, for the frown ended up looking more like a pout.  
“I’m adorable on the ground?”  
“You are completely adorable on the ground, Arthur.”  
“Well in that case,” Arthur stood, then tackled Francis and slammed his head against the bench, “you’re adorable with blood-matted hair.” England gave him a rather malicious smile, adding as an afterthought, “Oh, by the way, Francis, how did you sleep after I left last night?”  
It was one of those rare magical moments, as England brought back the events of the previous night; that France felt his face flush with heat. He grimaced and rubbed the back of his head, which was actually not bleeding too badly, and tried to cover the blush. “Ow! And it was miserable!” This response earned a laugh from Arthur, and Francis mumbled a rather put out reply of ‘shut up, Farty.’ Arthur merely rolled his eyes.  
“You’re so predictable, Frog.” He laughed again, apparently delighted by Francis’s pain.  
“I am not! Or else you would have known not to sit on the end of the bench.”  
“Well there’s an exception to every rule. I should know, my native language is English.” Francis rolled his eyes, muttering something about it being Alfred’s fault. Arthur also rolled his eyes, not understanding what their conversation had to do with America. “What? That didn’t make any sense. Did I hit you too hard?”  
France again rubbed the back of his head, which still hurt. “Probably, love.”  
Arthur had no sympathy for Francis’s pain; in his mind, the frog deserved it, and he refused to even fake being apologetic. “Besides, Alfred is your fault.”  
Francis, feeling more than a little insulted for being blamed for Alfred, replied with a rather loud, “You gave birth to him!”  
“Uhhh…” Arthur’s face turned a bright red with embarrassment at those words, “don’t say that so loud.” Through gritted teeth, his half whispered, half hissed, at his boyfriend rather angrily, “And you raped me, Frog!”  
“You seemed completely willing to me!” Francis didn’t feel like being quiet and compliant; he felt mischievous, and so refused to lower his voice at all. Arthur quickly tackled him again, covering his mouth with his hand.  
“That’s BS, Frog! I was not willing!” All of Arthur’s efforts to shut Francis up backfired on him, and earned him a rather painful bite on the hand covering his boyfriend’s mouth.  
“It is too true!” Francis’s voice held a tone of mock defensiveness, though he did speak a little softer now, mostly so Arthur would stop tackling him.  
“Ouch!” Arthur shook his hand, trying to relieve the pain, glaring. “Is not! You dragged me away!”  
“I did not… Okay, I didn’t literally drag you anywhere…” Arthur was definitely annoyed now. He knew Francis was only teasing him, not trying to hurt him at all, but the subject was a tricky one for him, and therefore it was starting to piss him off.  
“Whatever. The point is it was not consensual and therefore your fault.” He honestly wanted to drop the subject, but as was often the case for poor England, luck just wasn’t on his side.  
“It was too consexual.” Francis stated simply, not seeming to have caught his mistake until he noticed the look Arthur was giving him. “I mean consensual…”  
Arthur gave a soft, triumphant laugh , feeling like he had won and fully intent on making fun of the Frog’s mistake. “See, one cannot hide when they lie. Bleeding rapist.”  
“It was an honest slip of the thumb.” Francis replied with a shrug, not seeming to care too much about being called a rapist. He honestly knew it was true, and really didn’t feel the need to argue against it anymore. Arthur just stared for a second, amazed by what appeared to be the sheer stupidity of the Frenchman; but in reality was just a combination of his accent and his all-around-Frenchness.  
“The thumb? You lie through your teeth. Or your thumb, rather.” He sighed, shaking his head. The topic thoroughly bothered him, and France’s refusal to leave well enough alone had made England undeniably angry with the Frenchman. “Just admit it! You raped me, Frog! Multiple times!”  
“Fine.”  
“Well?” Arthur continued glaring, now raising one of his large eyebrows.  
Francis sighed, his eyes focusing anywhere but on Arthur’s. “I may have non-consensually slept with you multiple times.” Arthur, again feeling triumphant, nodded ad quickly got off of Francis.  
“Good. Then you can get up.” France looked up at him, curiously watching England as he backed away a few steps. His head tilted slightly to one side, like an inquisitive puppy.  
“Why exactly do you keep tackling me?” It was beginning to get painful, and France really didn’t want his hair to be covered in his own blood; it already took long enough to wash it as it was.  
Arthur looked back down at him and shrugged. “To get back at you for pushing me off the bench, and to shut you up.” The bored tone of his voice made it sound as if he thought the answer had been obvious. This answer, however, did not at all seem satisfactory to Francis. He stood up and brushed dust off his clothes with a slight frown.  
“Well, fine.” No emotion. Arthur’s face was blank, not sure what was wrong.  
“What? Disappointed?”  
“No. Just annoyed.” And Francis was. It was annoying and painful, not in the least as fun for him as it obviously was for Arthur.  
Arthur laughed, not understanding why Francis was so upset with him. Didn’t he realize that what he had done to Arthur deserved such treatment? That this was in fact hardly a true punishment for his crimes against the Brit? “Uh huh.” Francis glared at him, now as annoyed and angry as Arthur had been before.  
“I mean it, Arthur. I’ve had enough of your abusive behavior.”  
“Well don’t I get a right to revenge?” England’s tone still held some indifference to France’s words, but they had a defensive undertone that the Frenchman barely managed to pick up on. He honestly believed that he had a right to treat him like this?!  
“By beating me every time you see me?!”   
“Yes. My lust must be satisfied…” He sat for a second, then quickly added, “… for revenge. Lust for revenge.” It felt like some kind of sick game to Francis, one that he was getting tired of playing, but it was all very serious to Arthur. It wasn’t really that he enjoyed hurting Francis, but it didn’t feel like abuse to Arthur. It felt like the justice that he had been denied for so long.  
Francis sighed and shook his head, more than a little disappointed at how the day was going. It had started out so well too. He didn’t want to have to resort to this, but England didn’t seem to be giving him any other choice. “I’ve had enough,” he said softly, his eyes meeting the Brit’s sadly. “It’s over, Arthur.”  
England’s eyes widened in panic; surely he didn’t mean that. He couldn’t, Francis loved him, didn’t he? “L-like you could survive without me!”  
“I’ll certainly try, love. You brought it to this point.” Even as he spoke the words, Francis knew Arthur was right; he needed him.  
Arthur was truly panicking now, fighting against the tears that so wanted to flow down his face. “Mon chérie?!” Francis again tilted his head to one side, stopping and turning to face England.  
“Yes, Arthur?”  
“Ha! You turned around quite fast!” As if that honestly made any difference.  
“I’m not going to ignore you; I simply refuse to date you anymore.” The words felt like a knife to his own heart, he could only imagine how they tore away at Arthur’s.  
Arthur’s heart broke and his eyes flooded with stinging tears; he didn’t understand what had gone wrong. “Mais, Francis, mon amour!” Another knife to France’s heart; he hated making Arthur cry.  
“No, Arthur. If you had loved me, you would have listened sooner. I love you, but I won’t let you treat me like dirt.” He loved him, he loved him so much. All he wanted was to hold him close, and promise that he would never leave him; to tell him that everything would be alright, and that he had never meant those terrible words. He just couldn’t.  
Arthur quickly snapped from depression to anger, refusing to allow his supposed ex-boyfriend to play the battered abuse victim when in reality it was he that had suffered far worse from the other. “Okay, gloves off! Having raped me multiple times, you’re lucky that I’ve been with you at all!”  
Francis knew that he was once again right, even wanted to admit it, but his pride refused to allow it. “The past is the past, Arthur. We were in this relationship a few minutes ago. And now it has ended and is also in the past.”  
Arthur sighed, not willing to let this be the end of their relationship, and let his pride die first. “Okay, okay. Je suis désolé.” It was the only chance he could see that would make Francis stay with him, but at the same time, he still had his own pain to face. “But you never apologized for what you did to me. The past is the past, but it left a wall behind.”  
Francis allowed a small smile to cross his face, seeing that there was a chance for them after all. “As you wish, Arthur. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything that I have done to you.” The wall still stood, but now it was cracked and weakening; it would not trouble Arthur now as it had before.  
“Merci, mon ami. Are we okay?” He held out his hand to Francis, praying that he would take it.  
Francis took Arthur’s hand, and pulled him close. “I think we will be.” No, he knew that they would be. He had his Arthur back, everything was perfect.  
“Good.” Arthur blushed again, not able to look Francis in the eyes as he tried to hide, which Francis found completely adorable. “Je t'aime.”  
“Je t'aime aussi, Arthur.” Francis whispered, giving him a gentle kiss as everything faded to black. Who would have known that the fortune cookie had been right all along?


	4. Chapter 4

England raised his shoulder and bent his neck, moving away as he felt France’s nose snuggle into the crook of his collar. “Francis,” he said, “I thought we agreed not to do this at the G8 conference.”  
France sighed disappointedly and moved away. “Yes. Fine.”   
Satisfied, England rested his chin on his hand, looking around at the other countries attending the meeting, which had yet to start. He really really didn’t want to be here. At the moment, a queasy lump—which was most likely a digested form of his breakfast—was resting in his throat, waiting for its chance to force its way back out into the world.  
As if to add to his discomfort, next to him his Frenchman felt the need to exclaim: “Arthur!”   
“What?!” he shouted a little louder than he had intended. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to use your inside voice?”  
“What mother?”  
“Er, whatever creature gave birth to you.” England laid his head down on the table as a strong wave of nausea came over him.   
“… Oh right, her,” France answered as he sat down in the chair next to him. “No. Why don’t you tgfuyfjmfyfd...”  
His head on the table and sheltered by his arms, England couldn’t tell if something had cause France to fall into some strange alien language, or if it was simply his illness affecting his ears.  
“Run that by me again, Francis. I feel a bit queer today.”  
“Teach me,” the Frenchman answered. “Sorry, love. Canada threw something at me. That child inherited your violence.”   
“Huh?” Canada isn’t violent… Canada? Arthur lifted his head and found the younger country sitting down the table with his bear, giving a displeased look to the man from whom he had inherited his wavy blonde locks. After he had managed to confirm the translucent boy’s identity, he plopped his heavy head back to the table where he could more comfortably speak without the threat of his morning waffles reaping their vengeance. “Oh, right, Canada. Violent? What did you do to him?”  
“Nothing,” France answered. “I asked him to share his maple syrup. He threw a hockey puck at my head.”  
“Hmm.” England didn’t feel much like giving an answer.  
His partner sighed with irritation. “Why must they be so stubborn? And annoying? I raised him better than that!”  
“I think that came from both of us.” His voice was muffled, for he had once again retreated back into the privacy of his crossed arms.  
Noticing the level of his voice, France finally turned his eyes away from his crabby son, to his somewhat green boyfriend.  
“Arthur, love, are you feeling alright?” he asked in a concerned voice.  
“Hmm? Just feeling a little nauseous this morning. And try not to call me love. Unless Alfred blabbed, I don’t think anyone here knows about us yet.”  
“Arthur?”  
France gently attempted to smooth out the spikes of England’s unyielding hair.  
“What?”  
The hair popped right back out of place.  
“Won’t they be concerned if I don’t call you love and try to rape you?” he pointed out, looking over the rebellious blonde spikes as he plotted to cut them.  
England’s head popped up with excitement, relishing in the prospect of another one of their famous pointless bickering battles. “Ha!” he sneered. “More like if we don’t try to kill each other, Francis. Why not? For old time’s sake? Fighting with you is so much fun…”  
France swiftly laid a smooch on his love before England could even think to duck. “Perhaps just once more.”  
“France!” Arthur shouted, quickly shoving him away. He gazed around at every eye in the room that stared upon them, feeling his ears grow hot. “Uh…” England covered. “You foul smelling man lover!”   
He leaped at him and the two burst into their signature fight cloud.  
Then, through some sudden, rare burst of skill, France leapt out of the pink dust cloud and yanked a bat from beneath Belarus’s chair (she had apparently attached herself to her older sibling like a leech and invited herself to the meeting.) “Batsaber fight! Again!”  
“Ha!” England laughed and pulled a bat from beneath Canada’s seat, thrusting it out like a sword. “Come on, Frog! You’ll pay for that! Huh?” Thought. “Wait. Matthew, why do you have this?”  
“Y-you recognize me?” the young country asked, startled, his deep blue eyes wide with surprise.  
“Uh, I uh…” he whipped his attention back to France. “Come on, Frog!”  
Francis blinked in surprise as well. “You recognized Canada? AH!” There was a blur of gold and brown as France quickly ducked his head from an incoming bat. “Alfred! Don’t help him!”  
“Huh?” England looked over to find the source of the bat to be a very unhappy looking America. “Alfred F. Jones! What are you doing?!”  
“What’s wrong with you England?!” America demanded. “I thought you hated him?!”  
“I, uh…” Great… What now? Now it seemed that Alfred was beginning to fear he was losing his big brother, who raised him, to some other person. The boy had no idea about the history between the three of them. But that’s how England had wanted it. But was that a good thing? Or was it… then again… What now? What now? What now?!  
“It’s your choice, Arthur,” France’s voice broke his frantic thoughts. “Tell him if you want. I won’t blame you if you don’t want to.” His voice seemed cold and he glared at America. “England is not your responsibility. He is free to do as he chooses.”   
A fire ignited in his stomach at the behavior of the two men standing before him. How could they be so…there were no words for this situation. England growled. He knew what needed to be done. Finally, with resolve, and in a dangerous and demanding voice he said “Come with me,” to the two in front of him.   
Francis’s electric blue eyes widened innocently when he realized he was being addressed as well.  
“Yes, you too, France! Don’t mind us everybody!” Arthur shouted, dragging them out of the room by their ears. “Wait here Alfred!” he demanded and left America in the hallway before dragging France into a nearby room and slammed the door behind them.”Ok, Francis.”  
“Wh-what’s wrong, Arthur?” Francis stammered, terrified by his display.  
England slammed one hand against the wall next to France’s face and his put other hand on his hip. Luckily, the sheepish Frenchman had shrunk down below his shorter height so he could dominate with a glare down at him. “I need to know what exactly your problem is with Alfred,” he demanded in an intimidating voice.  
“I don’t like that he is always trying to control you. And trying to keep you away from me. I—” France shrunk a little more, still quite afraid of him. “I’m sorry.”  
England blinked. Was that really it? His demeanor softened and he chuckled. “Francis, he’s like that with everybody… I guess that’s was my failure…”  
France softly pulled him close.  
“No Arthur,” he said. “You didn’t fail. You are amazing. Alfred was always doomed to be too independent.”  
Arthur laughed at the excuse. “Well. I guess I can’t argue. … But Francis, you don’t hate him, do you?”  
He had begun to worry that that might be the case after sensing the increasing tension surrounding them the past few days. But that couldn’t be true, considering their…  
To Arthur’s relief, his boyfriend’s eyes widened, surprised that he would be asked that.   
“Of course I don’t hate him! He’s my son too,” the Frenchman answered. “I love him, but he annoys me a bit.” France leaned down and added in England’s ear. “And I love you too.”  
“Thank goodness,” Arthur sighed with relief, his mind too deep in thought to respond to his lover’s tender words. “It’s just,” he said pensively and looked up to give France a quick, heartfelt kiss, “I want to make things right. Which means…”  
A nervous expression washed over France’s face. “We have to tell him?”  
“You took the words right outta my mouth, mon cher,” England smiled, then turned his head to the door of the room. He hadn’t noticed how foreboding the portal was when they had passed through it. His eyes stayed glued to it even when his partner took him in his arms and cuddled him close, only snapping from the door’s trance at the sound of his voice.   
“You do realize he’ll kill me, don’t you?”  
“Nah, he’s a bigger woos than he puts on,” he hoped. “Uh, Francis?”  
“Yes, love?”  
“Let go of me, love. I-I can’t breathe.”  
“Oh. Sorry,” France released, then kissed, him. “Well, shall we?”  
Arthur breathed deeply to catch up on the oxygen he had missed out on, then turned to hold his love for a long long loving moment.  
“… Ok, I admit it. I’m stalling.”  
“Alright.” No arguments.  
“Ok,” he breathed. Then walked toward door. Then slowly, he stopped to check that France had followed.  
Following, France gently slapped England on the back of the head. “Go on, love. We don’t have all day. Everyone else will start to worry.”  
“Ow,” he rubbed the spot he had slapped, “what happened to the no abuse thing? And who said I have to go first?”   
Turning away from France, he slowly opened door and found America leaning against wall waiting for them. “Um, Alfred—” he glanced through the door he had just walked through and reached back into room to yank France out. “Alfred, we have something to tell—HUMPH! Hold that thought!” he yelled throwing a hand over his mouth and dashed off to the bathroom, leaving France and America alone together in a deep, awkward silence.   
For the few seconds Arthur had been gone so far, the space between the two of them seemed to stretch surreally and France cringed from the feel of America’s electric blue glare bolting into his. A clock somewhere ticked away three, four, five seconds… This was uncomfortable.  
… “Arthur?” France escaped to check on England.  
Arthur was locked in the single bathroom, gripping the silver handicap bar to hold himself steady as he lurched over the toilet. The taste of acidic bile made him gag worse than the nausea itself. He shook a little as the vomiting ceased. Truthfully, this was the third morning in a row that he had felt sick.  
“No, no, no, no,” he muttered. “God, no. At the least, why today?”  
France’s voice rang from the hallway, calling his name. For the moment, Arthur relished in the distance of the voice, and enjoyed the serene privacy that the blank, white tile walls of the bathroom provided, despite its usual role as the most unpleasant room in a public building. He didn’t want to return to the populated world yet. He just wanted to take a moment of pea—  
A few knocks on the door shattered the barrier. Dammit. Arthur sighed and stood up, putting on a casual demeanor before swinging open the door that would reveal his worried other.  
“Francis? Do you mind?” he asked as though he had walked in on him changing his shirt.  
“What is wrong, love? You’re scaring me!” Francis inquired, a little disgruntled.  
“Just a stomach bug, France, calm down, I’m fine. I just felt the irresistible urge to regurgitate.”   
“You’re sure, Arthur? Mon amour, this is not normal.”  
Instinctively, he went on the defensive. “W-what are you saying, Fra—”  
“What are you two doing?” America interjected, his patience wearing thin.  
“Alfred, I was worried about Arthur, that’s all,” France answered before turning back to England. “You know what I’m saying, Arthur.”  
“Uh, no, forget it,” he dismissed and turned to America. “Alfred, uh, how do I word it?”   
Arthur glanced back at France for help.  
“Alfred, Arthur and I have something important to tell you.”  
“Yeah, I think he already knows that, frog.”  
America was becoming more and more irritated with their antics. “Well, out with it, bro,” he pushed, crossing his arms and glaring.  
Bro.  
England could only just manage a low voice. “That’s the point…”  
What a lie. What a huge terrible lie. Could he really face this? Tell a boy that his family had been right there in front of him his entire life, but didn’t even bother to reveal themselves to him? How could he have lied so bad?  
“It’s alright, love. I’ll tell him,” France put gentle hands on his shoulders, then stepped forward and took a deep breath. “Alfred, he isn’t your brother. He’s your father.”  
Utter confusion washed down the already dim face.  
“What?” America coughed. “That doesn’t—then who’s my mother, eh? And, wait, why are you here, France?”  
“I’m also your father. Let’s just say England is the more motherly parent. But we love you,” Francis added under his breath, “even if you are a bit of an asshole.”  
Motherly parent? England felt his face turn candy apple red and he jerked his head away.  
“… Wtf? That still doesn’t make any sense. Motherly parent?” Alfred’s eyes widened with sparks of realization. He put his hands on the sides of his head and shook it side to side. “Ew, ew, ew ew ewewewewew! You guys are lying, right? Tell me you’re lying. Seriously, that’s not funny!”  
“Arthur, why are you not helping me, love?” France asked with a sigh. “No, Alfred. We aren’t joking.”   
“You try being the ‘motherly parent,’” England whispered back, then turned his head guiltily back to look at the confused Alfred. “We really should have dealt with this when he was little.”  
“Yes, Arthur love, I agree.”  
“Wait, let me straighten this out,” America said throwing his hands out as if stopping traffic, his voice on the edge of hysteria. “Y-you’re both dudes, right?”  
“Of course we’re both men!” France responded.  
“But England… He… He…”  
“Yes, I bloody well did!” England finally spoke up. “And don’t ask me how, I—shit.” He dropped his arms to his side and marched over to the conference room door.  
“What’s wrong?” France asked a little worried. “And where did Hong Kong come from?”  
England jerked, but chose it was best to ignore the question for now and swung open the door. It was like a dam had burst, the remaining five G8 countries, plus Belarus, came falling through the doorway; all had obviously had their ears shoved against it. “Wankers.”  
Francis gave a yelp of fear and leaped behind America for cover. “Russia!”  
America jumped away from him. “Hey! Back off!”  
“Well, sorry, Al,” Arthur sighed, glaring down at the eavesdroppers. “I kind of wanted this to be a private conversation.”   
England turned and put a hand up to block a squeaking rejected Francis, who was now coming to him to seek protection. “France calm yourself, you’re making matters worse.” He sighed again and looked from pile of countries to the spot where America was standing. The boy had disappeared, which wasn’t a surprise. Another sigh escaped him and he addressed the pile of countries below. “I suppose you already knew all this, Matthew?”  
“Yes, Father. I knew,” a quiet voice confirmed.  
“Hmm, do you think we should go after Alfred?”  
“Yes, Arthur. We should probably bring Mathew as well.”  
“Yeah,” he took a step forward before heaving once again. “Grr, damn stomach bug, why today?” He straightened himself back up, let the nausea pass, and dismissed another worried look from France before walking forward to check a hallway. “Come on.”   
France and Canada had begun to follow him, when France stopped suddenly.  
“I’m tired,” he said, releasing a long, unsexy yawn.  
“Francis?” England said, noticing the odd behavior. “What is with you?”  
“I’m not sure myself, Arthur. I’m worried about everything, and my country is going to hell.”  
… What?  
“France, did Russia slip you something?”  
“Probably. I don’t know. Arthur, I’m sorry, but I’m not feeling quite like myself right now.”  
“This is really not the time, Francis, snap out of it!”  
Suddenly, France swayed as if hit by a gust and passed out.  
“Francis!” Arthur dashed forward and caught him before he could hit the ground.   
He couldn’t get him to wake up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise that the story will start moving along faster in a few chapters. When we were rping this, we had really never done something like this before, and we didn't have set characterizations for France, England, America, Canada.... Pretty much, we only knew how to properly write Belarus from the beginning. We'll get better, just try to stick with us through these really random first few chapters.

It had been hours since the strange events of the G8 meeting, the fact that Belarus had invited herself now seemed normal compared to the other events. England sat by his unconscious boyfriend, waiting for him to wake up. An idea popped into his head, a very clichéd idea, but it was all he could think of that might wake Francis. Arthur leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and then pulled back. Francis’s eyes slowly opened as he woke up, which left Arthur slightly concerned that he’d have to constantly be the knight in shining armor. Francis suddenly shot up in his bed, squealing girlishly at something across the room, clinging to Arthur for dear life. ‘Yep, I’m going to have to be the manly one… Great…’ Looking over to where France was pointing, he barely noticed a tiny spider scurrying up a wall, and rolled his eyes. ‘Really?!’  
Arthur tried to force Francis off of him, annoyed. “What the hell, Frog?! Get off of me! You’ve been out for hours! It’s morning again!” France let go of Arthur and blinked, confused.  
“What? What happened?” Looking back at the wall, he noticed his great foe still there. “And why is there a spider?” It seemed like a legitimate question to the overly dramatic Frenchman. England did not agree, more annoyed with France than before.  
“Forget the spider! You passed out!”  
“Did I, love?” He honestly couldn’t remember, it gave him a headache.  
“Yes, I already said that. Wanker.” Francis fought to hide a smile; Arthur could only be nice for so long.  
“I’m sorry. Do you feel any better now, love?”  
England blinked, a little shocked by France’s concern for him, as well as being in denial of his current condition. It was sweet, but he needed to worry about himself now. “Uh, not really. But we’re talking about you! What happened?” France was too calm right now, and it was bugging England. He simply sighed and shook his head, waving it off as nothing, annoying bloody Frog…..  
“My boss has been working me really hard. I was just tired, love. That’s all.” Completely exhausted actually, and all of the recent late night activities did nothing to help that exhaustion. Arthur smiled, glad that it was nothing to worry about, and because he knew what was really going on now.  
“Heh, I think there are other reasons why you’re tired, mon amour.” Francis laughed softly, enjoying listening to the Brit speak his language.  
“Well naturally.” He yawned, still tired even after having been unconscious for so long. “I’m sleepy.”  
“You’ve been asleep for 24 hours.” That was concerning to England. France, however, was unphased.  
“So? The scary spider exhausted me.” Okay, maybe that was stretching the truth a bit, but he didn’t care. He held his arms out to Arthur, much like a child. “Carry me.” England scowled at him, pushing him away.  
“Like hell!” Francis laughed and stood up.  
“Alright, alright, love. I was kidding. Everything’s okay.”  
“You sure?”  
“Yes, love.” Francis kissed him gently. “Now, are you alright?” Arthur sighed.  
“I’m fine, France. Hey, after we got you home – you were freakin’ heavy – Alfred come to see if you were alright.”  
“He did? What did he want? And I am not heavy!” … ‘That’s all he picked up on? Was he not listening at all?’  
“To see if you were alright.” ‘I just said that, Frog. Try to keep up.’ Arthur rolled his eyes, feeling the need to spite the annoying Frenchman. “And yes, you are.” But France had already argued his point, and wasn’t paying attention again.  
“Well, at least I know he won’t try to kill me. Did Matthew come home?”  
“Yes, naturally. They’re waiting in the dining room.” Francis nodded, hoping the younger twin might be able to keep the loud mouth American under control.  
“Alright. Well, love, let’s go. We still have some things to explain to Alfred.” Arthur froze, terrified by what Francis might mean.  
“Like what?”  
“Well, like what’s going to happen now. For all of us.” ‘All of us?’ Arthur felt a slight hope, but it was overruled by his crushing sense of despair.  
“What’ll happen now?” He spread his hands out hopelessly and then gestured to himself. “I don’t know.”  
“We will, won’t we? I want to keep you close if I can.”  
“Okay, that’s one thing.” Francis sighed.  
“I don’t know either, but Arthur?”  
“Hmm?”  
“I love you.”  
Arthur smiled, “I kno-” He was cut off by a not-very-attractive gagging noise. France looked at him, concerned.  
“You’re still sick?”  
“Yeah, I thought it went away, but it came right back this morning.”  
“That’s not normal, mon cherie.” Why wasn’t Arthur as worried about this as he was? Maybe it really was nothing, but Francis just knew Arthur was hiding something from him.  
“What is?”  
“That you’re still sick.”  
“It’s only been a day. Stop worrying so much.”  
“I can’t. I love you, and I want to look after you.” Arthur fought to hide his smile, and just shook his head.  
“I’m fine, Francis. Come on. Stop playing Romeo.” He grabbed Francis’s hand, and pulled him out into the hall, almost laughing at the pout on his face.  
“I’m not Romeo. And I know you’re smarter than that stupid child, Juliet.” And once again, Arthur was forced to hide his laughter.  
“Well, thanks, France. I guess.” It was another one of those rare moments where Arthur actually managed to make Francis blush, and now found it even harder not to laugh at his boyfriend. Francis shook his head, mentally facepalming.  
“That sounded way cooler in my head.” Finally, Arthur laughed.  
“That’s why Brits have Shakespeare.”  
“Romeo and Juliet are Italian.”  
“But they were created by Shakespeare, a Brit.”  
“Whatever, love. Don’t we have something else to do right now?” Francis nudged Arthur towards the dining room, mostly wanting to end the completely pointless argument. Arthur nodded.  
“Yeah, good point.” He dragged France into the dining room. “Bad news, the git’s fine!” France pouted, and slapped the back of England’s head.  
“More bad news, kids. I had children with this punk.” Arthur slapped Francis’s head in revenge.  
“France, must you be so blunt?!” He moved closer and tried to whisper, “This is still a sensitive area with, uh, A-L-F-R-E-“  
“I can hear you, ya know… And spell my own name.” America said, displeased at the implication that he couldn’t spell. He was much smarter than that, he just refused to let the world know it. England sighed.  
“Well, give me credit for trying.”  
“Why am I not important enough to be considered sensitive to this?” A soft voice asked. Canada just figured he would be ignored as always, and was shocked when he was given an answer.  
“Matthew?” Canada’s eyes widened, shocked at being recognized. England looked directly at him, confused. “I didn’t think you were.” In truth, Matthew was fine, he just wanted to be remembered.  
“He’s not,” France answered for him. “But Matthew has been ignored for most of his life, love.” Arthur’s expression turned from confusion to sadness at being reminded how often he had forgotten his quieter son. France pressed a soft kiss to his lips, feeling guilty for making him sad. “What’s wrong, mon amour?” Arthur pushed him away.  
“France, could ya be a bit sensitive?” He said with a subtle gesture towards America, who was looking anywhere but at them. France nodded.  
“I’m sorry, Alfred.”  
Arthur took a small step towards his eldest child. “Alfred?” He was stopped by the glare in America’s eyes, hurt and doing little to hide it.  
“We’ve been through this before, England. I’m not a child, nor your little brother, and I’m not your son either!” With that, Alfred got up and walked away, leaving his parents and younger brother behind. Arthur watched him leave, feeling his heart break with every step the younger nation took. Every word had cut into his heart, tearing open scars that still remained from the Revolutionary War. If only he had told him sooner… Francis frowned, annoyed with Alfred’s attitude and moved in front of him.  
“Alfred, we understand that you’re upset,” he said, trying so hard to keep from telling the stubborn young American just how of a brat he was being, “but you will not speak to Arthur that way.” ‘Not after everything he’s done for you, insolent child. Not after all the pain you caused him. And… the pain I helped you cause…’ Alfred’s glare hardened, not feeling intimidated by the Frenchman in the slightest. It was surprising that Francis had challenged him at all, considering how weak he was.  
“Hey! Move you-” England snapped out of his depression, and moved over to America and France, torn between joy that Francis defended him, slight worry for his safety, and a need to try and bring his family together.  
“No. He has every right to talk to me that way. Alfred, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done to you. The fighting, the arguments. I know you went to France for a lot of things you couldn’t come to me for before you finally left. And… I’m sorry for this.” He reached out and put his hand on America’s head. “This should have been done a long time ago.” ‘I’m so sorry, Alfred. I just want my son back…’ Alfred’s glare was replaced with a look of surprise.  
“England…”   
Canada sat behind them, watching the drama unfold, silent as usual, just hoping that maybe this time something would work out. Arthur smiled at his son.  
“Well, Alfred, I guess there’s no way for me to get around saying that I…” he stopped as a wave of nausea hit him, “am going to throw up.” And with that, England ran out of the room.  
“D-da-er, England-“ America growled to himself, annoyed with his moment of weakness, and a little worried. France sighed.  
“He won’t tell me what’s wrong either, Alfred. Best to just let him be.” He gently placed a hand on the younger nation’s shoulder. “And I’m sorry too, Alfred.” He had fought as hard as he could for his boys, he just hadn’t been strong enough to keep them.  
“No, I’m sorry I was such a jerk… Well, I’m sorry I am a jerk.” Francis smiled at his son.  
“It’s alright. I understand, being related to both Arthur and me.” Alfred laughed.  
“Well, at least I know where that came from now.” His expression became concerned when he heard England throwing up whatever he had eaten for the past several hours. “Um, is that my fault?” Francis shook his head. He knew Arthur wasn’t telling him what was wrong for a reason, and he had his theories about what that reason was.  
“No, Alfred. More likely than not, it’ll be blamed on me.” And an evening alone with the Brit…   
“Hmm?”  
“Just a theory.” England came back into the room, looking a little shakier than he had earlier.  
“What did I miss?”  
“Alfred and I were reconciling.”  
Arthur smiled. “Good. I don’t want blood all over the floo- well, this is France’s house.”  
“You stay here too, love.” France smiled when England jerked a bit at his comment, blushing.  
“S-sometimes.” The stubborn Brit muttered, looking away from his boyfriend.  
“Um, I’m gonna go find Mattie and, uh… get outta here.” America said, backing away from his parents, grabbing his nearly invisible twin’s arm, and dragging him out of the house. France waved to the two as they left, getting a slight nod from Canada. England turned to look up at him.  
“So is everything okay?”  
“I’m alright, love. Are you? Have you considered seeing a doctor?” He was concerned about Arthur, and his refusal to see a doctor. The jerk England gave in response only did more to confirm his earlier theories.  
“No. I’m not seeing a doctor.” Arthur replied stubbornly.  
“Arthur, why don’t you want to go see a doctor, love?”  
“Uh, w-why go to the doctor over something so trivial?” His reaction proved that it clearly wasn’t trivial to him.  
“Because you don’t think it’s trivial, mon amour. What is wrong, Arthur?”  
“It-it’s nothing…” His voice was quieter, and shook a bit as he spoke.  
“Arthur,” Francis gently kissed his forehead, wanting to comfort him, “please, mon amour. It can’t be that bad.” Arthur fell into Francis’s arms, shaking. He buried his face in his boyfriend’s chest, on the verge of tears. Francis pet his hair gently, now knowing that he had been right. “Arthur.” His voice was gentle, trying to calm his beloved. “Arthur, love. It’s alright. Talk to me, please.”  
“I can’t do it again. Every time I, or somebody, gets hurt…”  
“What, love? Can’t do what? You have to tell me, darling.”  
“You know, France.” Yes, he knew, but he wanted Arthur to tell him.  
“France? We’re back to that now? Arthur, I’ll never leave you. We’ll make it. All of us.”   
Arthur looked up at him hopefully. “You promise, love?”  
“I do.” Francis smiled, and hugged him closer. “I promise.” Arthur smiled back at him.  
“Je t’aime, Francis.” Francis kissed him again.  
“Je t’aime, Arthur.” The two sat cuddled up together for a while before Francis spoke up again. “Arthur?”  
“Yes, Francis?” He looked up at his boyfriend curiously, but all he got in reply was incoherent mumbling. “What was that?” Francis looked up, nervous.  
“I… I…” Francis stuttered nervously. “Ah, screw it! Will you marry me, Arthur?”  
“W-what?! S-s-seriously?!”  
“No, Arthur, I’m not serious. I just bought this really expensive ring because I wanted to show off… Of course I’m serious!” Francis said as he pulled out a small ring box, showing a silver ring. The band sparkled with a row of ruby red sapphires encircling it.  
“Uh, Francis…”  
“Yes, Arthur?”  
“What do you think?” Arthur attack-kissed Francis yet again. Francis pulled away and smiled.  
“I’ll take that as a yes then, shall I, Angleterre?”  
Arthur blinked. “Shall you what?”  
“Take that answer as a yes. Arthur, I love you, but you can be slow sometimes.”  
“Uh, oh. “ Arthur blushed, flustered.   
Francis laughed softly, finding him completely adorable. “What, love?”  
Arthur laughed. “This is so weird.”  
“I know. But still…” England rolled his eyes, shutting France up with another kiss. France pulled away and whispered, “Je t’aime, Arthur.”  
“Didn’t we do this already?” Arthur asked with a soft laugh. “Je t’aime, Francis.” It was by some unfortunate chance that Alfred happened to walk back in at that moment.  
“Oh, am I interrupting something?” He quickly covered his head, hoping to avoid any objects that France might throw at his head. “I’m sorry, France! You’re right in front of the way out!” France laughed at America’s overreaction to absolutely nothing, moving out of the way.  
“And I thought he finally had learned how to KNOCK before he enters. Oh well.” He shook his head, still laughing, even when Arthur gave him a nudge that was clearly meant to shut him up.  
“Francis, there was nothing to knock.” America sighed in relief, lowering his hands as he very quickly made a second escape, Matthew reappearing to find his rather scatter-brained twin and drag him from the house. Arthur waited until he left to whisper to France, “You’re the only one knocking things up around here.” Francis snorted “gracefully.”  
“Of course, love.”


	6. Chapter 6

France yawned sleepily as he applied that last layer of hair spray to his waterfall of golden curls. He waited for the stuffy mist to settle before   
bending closer to the mirror to inspect the details of his masterpiece. One yellow string was flying out of place on the left side of his head,   
unattractively twisting upward like a perky dog tail. The curl. The curl with which all of Rome’s grandchildren   
had been cursed with. He groaned and attempted to force it down.  
“Do we have to go to the world conference meeting?” France complained to Arthur, who was just across the hall in the master  
bedroom. “Turkey’s hosting it, and he scares me.”  
“You know Al will take over,” England answered from the edge of the bed.  
“Yeah, but we still have to sit through Sadiq being a creeper.”  
England sat for a second processing that. “He creeps you out, yet you’re on a first name basis?”  
“Well, we used to be fairly close; you know how creepers stick together, but…… He’s a complete bastard to Spain….”  
“Um, ok,” while Arthur’s French was good, his Francis needed some work, so he changed the subject. “How did you fair with me staying at my place?”  
In anticipation of a time when they may not be able to be intimate because of the baby, as well in hopes to avoid being married to a man that needed   
him in bed fifty times a night, England had been attempting to train France not to need sex simply by denying him it. He had spent the night   
back in his own bed after being badgered by his deprived fiancé.  
“……… ……… ………… ……… Why? Why torment me, my love?” Francis whined.  
“It’s for your own good, Francis.”  
France trudged into the bedroom and gave him a much wanted kiss. “Please don’t do that to me,” he begged in a tormented voice.  
With an inkling of pity, Arthur stood and snogged him for a moment. “Feel better now?”  
“Not yet,” he answered and snogged a bit more. “Starting to feel better,” joy was returning to his voice and he began to slowly rub his hands up and down Iggy’s sides.  
“Down boy,” Arthur tittered and pushed France away. “We have some place to be, remember?”  
France responded by gently pinning him to wall. “They can wait, love. We’ll only be a little late,” he grinned and seductively kissed his lips.  
“Francis!”  
“Enjoy it, love.”  
Arthur ducked below and out of his lover’s arms. “No, I don’t think I will.”  
France gave a surprising smirk. “Then let’s go. I’ve been waiting for hours.”  
“Come on, you perv,” he started to turn to the door, but stopped and spun back around with a curious smile. “By the way, when’s that wedding you seemed so excited about, mon cher?”  
His groom-to-be hesitated for a moment. “As soon as I can get Italy to cooperate. I am NOT cooking for once. He can.”  
“Well hurry,” he demanded, before giving way to the blush that was creeping up his figure. “I… have to fit into a tux.”  
“And here I was hoping you would wear a dress.”  
“God no! I’m still a man! …. Mostly.”  
“Oh, but you would look so beautiful in white,” France stated stroking his face and giving him another kiss. “So, have we officially announced the wedding yet?”  
“Besides, it would show my, um, showing…” Iggy mumbled, shrunk small. “And I’m sure no one will be surprised by an announcement, I’m sure the G8 have gossiped everything they heard by now.”  
With that, France went to open the door. But when he had opened it all the way, he stopped and nearly tipped back with a hand on his heart.   
“What the hell is Belarus doing outside my room?!”  
“What?!”  
“She’s just sitting outside the door! Why are you here? AH!” a gleaming knife shot by his head.  
Arthur inched forward to glance through the doorway. Indeed, she had set herself a chair across from the door, perched like a member of the royal court, a row of knives in her lap.  
“I’m here because Russia is forcing me to help Italy with plans,” she said.  
“… What the hell is she talking about?” England asked.  
“Big Brother Russia loves me so much he wants me to make other friends so I vill be happier. So now I have to help plan your wedding,” she paused to throw a knife at the wall. “I am not happy.”  
“Francis, do something!” Arthur yelled, leaping behind him. … We’re screwed.  
“Ah…………..” France’s eyes darted around the room nervously. “Um……… Natalia, dear. Why don’t you go um……..” he stopped   
to pull her knife from the wall and kindly handed it back to her, “go down this hall, into the kitchen, and sharpen your knives, okay?”  
Belarus’s blue eyes looked up at him calmly, and it seemed as though she was about to do so before…  
“You told her to SHARPEN her knives?!” England interjected, poking his head out. “You idiot!”  
Belarus shot him a look with death in her eye and he quickly ducked back behind France, clutching his arm.  
“Natalia!” France yelled as if to a child.  
Iggy’s terrified voice came from behind him. “Wouldn’t you prefer to spend your time with Russia?”  
“Hush, Arthur. Let me handle this.”  
“You’re doing a FINE job!”  
“You made her mad! Natalia, I think we have some vegetable and meat you can chop up in the kitchen. Go on.”  
At those words, Belarus took her eyes away from England’s location and walked away.   
“I told you I could handle it,” Francis said proudly.  
“You told her to sharpen her knives!” he stammered. “Forget it. Let’s get outta here!”  
“I thought it would entertain her, love,” he answered before yelling down the hallway: “Natalia, come on, we have to go to the meeting!” then adding to England in a whisper. “I’m not leaving her here alone.”  
“I don’t want her in the car with us!”  
“We don’t have a choice, darling,” he said calmly and lead/dragged his love out to the car, where Belarus had quietly taken a place in the backseat.  
“See. She’s fine,” he assured.  
“I don’t want to get stabbed, France,” Arthur whispered in his ear.  
“You’ll be fine, baby. I won’t let her hurt you,” he tossed what looked like a Turkey voodoo back to her. “Stab that.”  
“… Can we not do ‘baby’ either?”  
“Alright, love,” France answered and kissed him, making Belarus gag.  
Arthur was honestly too scared to even give her a look. “Just get us there.”  
“We are there. Did you not notice we were moving?”   
“… Oh.”  
At that moment, a smiling Russia hummed pass the car and Belarus rocketed out after him.  
“Oh, thank God!” England shouted, leaning back in chair and putting his hand on his forehead.  
“I told you everything would be alright, darling,” France said, leaning over and kissing his cheek.  
“She gives me the creeps.”  
“I understand,” he smiled. “What pet names may I call you? Not sweetheart or baby.”  
“Nothing that sounds like you’re talking to a child.”  
“So darling, dearest, love,” France turned his head toward him with a cat-like smirk, “sexy……”  
= =  
O.O  
“Knew you’d like that one. Uke?”  
“Shut up,” England growled, then shrunk down a little bit and fidgeted with his fingers. “You think I’m sexy?”  
“Very sexy. Especially when you decide to act like a seme. I think I might let you try sometime, my darling.” He kissed him slowly.  
Arthur blushed, but was still able to shrug off France’s advances. “Nice try, but that’ll be a while.”  
“Arthur,” his fiancé breathed in a seductive voice. “We don’t have to go to the meeting, my sweet. They won’t miss us.”  
“Yeah, they will, frog. I think we’re the talk of the town right now.”  
Francis kissed him slowly again and gently took Arthur’s face in his hands. “No they won’t. Shh…. Don’t worry. They’ll understand.”  
An evil grin, which France most likely took for the wrong emotion, slid across England’s face. He reached behind him and pulled on the car door handle,   
sliding out expertly so France fell on his flat on his face. “I’ve gotten good at fighting you off, love.”  
“Don’t make me do something extreme, dear one,” France shouted, jumping up. He grabbed Arthur and pinned him to car to lay one on him. “There. Now behave.”   
And with that, he dashed off in fear faster than a midnight’s streaking through Paris.  
“Yeah, you better run,” England growled.  
“Arthur’s trying to kill me!” France was running around like a pothead on crack. “Alfred help!”  
“Alfred doesn’t care,” Arthur said, following him calmly. “Now stop making a scene.”  
A Belarus knife shot passed his head.  
“Ah!” he shouted and hid behind France again.  
“Natalia, please,” France yelled, booking away from the knives. “Right. Never telling her to sharpen her knives again. She’s scary.”  
“I told you!” England shouted as he followed him. “Why is she targeting me?”  
“I don’t know. Ask Gilbert. He probably pissed her off,” he stopped safely in the doorway of the meeting hall and gently brushed Iggy’s hair away from his face. “Arthur, you’re bleeding, love.”  
“Huh?” Arthur looked and put hand on the cut in his arm.  
“Here, let me,” Francis said gently and took out handkerchief and wiped the blood away. “There.” He kissed his lips tenderly.  
“France, let’s get inside. And sit very far away from Russia and his little disease.”   
Another knife flew by sliced England’s shoulder.   
“Ah! No!” he once again found himself jumping behind the protection of France. He hated being pregnant.  
“Arthur, get back in the car. We’re leaving.”  
“You wish! Come on, inside.”  
“No, Arthur. Get. In. The. Car.” France added to Russia: “And keep your demon bitch away from us!”  
“You’ll only make her more mad, Francis. And if we go, she’ll only give us trouble every meeting.”  
“No she won’t. Russia’s looking for an excuse to duct tape her in a closet. Please, love?”  
“No, come on.”  
“Are you sure you’ll be alright, darling?” Francis asked with a kiss.   
“Yes, yes. Now come on, we’ll be late,” he marched to the meeting room.  
“Alright. And no, Ivan, she can’t help plan the wedding. I don’t want her anywhere near Arthur.”  
England reached back and tugged France in the door quickly before he could irritate the Russians more. This is the man I’m marrying.  
“I love you, Arthur, my darling,” he felt the need to take another kiss from him before taking his seat. Francis smiled when a blushed  
ignited on his lover’s cheeks at the sight of the other countries staring at them in shock. “Forget them, my angel,” he kissed his forehead. “Don’t you all have something else to do?”  
“I don’t care what they think of us, it’s Alfred. I wanted him to have the choice of whether or not he wanted people to know, but that didn’t work out. Now I’m worried we might embarrass him.”  
Miraculously, France blushed as well. “Oh. Did he say that after I passed out?”  
“No, I’m just worried we might.”  
“Of course.”  
“He seems fine for now, though,” he said, then groaned and slid his head into his arms. “He’s gonna start the meeting.”  
“Well, look at it this way, because we’re his parents, we can pick on him,” Francis smirked.  
“We didn’t before?” Arthur smiled a little. “And it’s not like we’re the only ones.”  
“True. But it would still be fun. Oh lord, you’d think Sadiq would learn to leave Antonio alone,” he sighed and got up to rescue his long time friend.  
“Uh.” England watched his companion drag a beaten Spain from his masked attacker. Casually, he rested his head in his hand. Monday.  
But then, Spain slowly turned his head and met France’s lips with his.   
That was not Monday.  
Arthur shot up and threw a bat at Spain and sat France aggressively down in the chair, crossing his arms angrily.  
“You didn’t give me a chance to do that, love. It’s not his fault, Arthur. He didn’t know and I’ve allowed that before. I’m sorry.”  
“Yeah, like he hasn’t heard,” he growled with a pout.  
“Well, why not prove it to him?” France asked seductively, then added: “Not here of course. And stop pouting.” He gave him a poke on the forehead.  
“Prove how?”  
“We’ll see, darling.”  
“What? You’re not on those drugs again, are you?”  
“Of course not. But I’m still waiting to see how my darling uke manages being a seme. As a matter of fact, I believe I’d enjoy it enough.”  
“Huh?” England’s face squirmed into a disgusted look. “Come off it, France.”  
“I’m serious, darling.”  
He smacked France in the head and changed the subject. “I was thinking it would be good to have Alfred and Mattie over for dinner tonight.”  
“Yes, I agree. And, no, love, you are not cooking.”  
“Do you think I was actually considering that?”  
“You have before.”  
“That was before I had you to cook, Francis. And my cooking is just fine.”  
“Of course. Whatever you say.”  
“Shut up, git,” England sighed. “I want some chocolate.”  
“Again?”  
“Yes.” He added in a whisper: “It’s your fault.”  
“It takes two to tango, darling,” Francis whispered back.  
“Well you lead.”  
“That I did. And you’ll have your chance at that eventually perhaps. Has the meeting even started yet?”  
“… Haven’t you heard Al talking for the last half hour?”  
“No. Ah!” France was forced to duck a knife again. “Why?!”  
England ducked below the table and even America shut up, looking around confused.  
“Al help! Belarus!” France yelled.  
“What the hell?!” Alfred shrieked, ducking a knife himself.  
“She’s evil!”  
“Um, maybe we should go,” Arthur said quickly and jumped out from underneath the table. He rushed for the door,   
pulling a confused Alfred out of the path of another blade and dragged the boy out the door, slamming it behind him. “How’s your day been, Al?”  
Alfred jerked as a knife blade sliced its way through the door. “Peachy!”  
“AH! Arthur don’t leave us!” the French accent came from the weapon infested room they had left behind. “Run Matthew!”  
“Oh, funny, I thought Francis followed us…. Oh shit.”


End file.
